


In Love With My Car

by Aethelflaed



Series: Sawdust of Words [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: But Also Crowley's Good Driving (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Crowley's Bad Driving (Good Omens), Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Driving, During Canon, Fluff, Happy Crowley (Good Omens), Hopeful Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love at First Sight, M/M, Post Scene: St James's Park Argument 1862 (Good Omens), References to Depression, but indirectly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-23 18:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21086072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: London, 1933After 70 years of on-and-off naps, Crowley has been dragged out for some demonic work. But a chance encounter brings him to someone who can change his life.All pseudo-romantic description aside, it's time for Crowley to meet the Bentley!





	In Love With My Car

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note to those fond of TV-Crowley-also-slept-through-the-19th-century headcanons: me too, but sadly he had places to be in those years. Instead of one long nap, Crowley has taken numerous naps of anywhere from a few weeks to over a year, occasionally interrupted by the need to go do work. I think I made this clear in the story, but figured I should state it outright as well.
> 
> Quick note to Aziraphale fans: he's only in this one briefly, but I figured Crowely's thoughts were enough for the ship tag. If you think the character tag is false advertisement, drop me a comment below and I'll remove it.

London – 1933

It was love at first sight.

Crowley had been slouching down the road in a foul mood, all but attacking the cobbles with his cane, grumbling to himself. 

He’d been sent to northwest London for a Temptation that was barely worth the effort of showing up for, barely worth getting out of bed for, interrupting his lovely two-week-long nap, not that it was a record or anything, back in the 1880s he’d managed almost two full years and it had been _ glorious__,_ but still getting out had been a nice change, he’d been looking forward to finding a pub, except wait there wasn’t a single decent drinking establishment in this entire uncultured _ slum__,_ but then he remembered there was an excellent cemetery for brooding in, but someone had to go and put all these blasted _ railroad tracks _ through the whole city, what was even the point of such a thing, and now he couldn’t figure out where to cross them –

There was a clatter to his right. He glanced over and froze in place, his breath stolen away, heart silent in his chest. The late afternoon light glistened off the chrome and headlights, but the dark chassis devoured it like a black hole.

It had only just been pushed off the assembly room floor. Two men gave the wheels a final polish before it could be driven to its new owner. A single flash of light winked across the windshield like a promise. An invitation.

He didn’t so much walk across the street as simply follow the pull deep in his stomach. He carefully removed his black glove and brushed his fingers softly across the curve of the hood.

It wasn’t warm; the car had never been turned on. But it didn’t feel dead. It was asleep. Dormant.

Waiting.

“Can I help you, sir?” some human asked.

“What is this?” Crowley asked breathlessly. Obviously it was a car, but like nothing he’d seen before. It wasn’t rigid or boxy or with that ragged, unfinished look so many had. Every line of it swooped and soared. He traced his fingers across the nickel-plated steel as he walked, seeing it from every angle.

It was two-tone: black and _ darker black. _

“This, sir, is the new 3 ½ litre Bentley, the silent sports car. Production only started a few months ago; this is the first we’ve assembled.”

Resting his hand in the open window, Crowley leaned in. The leather seats were exactly the shade of deep red he’d known they would be. The smell of it was intoxicating. Enticing.

“Sell me this car.” He never turned his eyes away.

“Ah. Yes. Well.” The human seemed to recover slightly, and slid a little closer, talking in a rhythm that suggested the speech was memorized. “The new Bentley is a supremely stylish car, comfortable for up to five people, and is an absolute joy to handle. Its unique blend of luxury and performance is sure to make you the envy of every driver in London. This saloon model is a closed car, but we can also assemble it as a cabriolet, which can be converted easily – ”

“No you don’t understand.” The door swung open at his merest touch. The seat was warm, welcoming. Exactly the right distance from the pedals. He’d never – _ ever _ – felt so comfortable anywhere as he did behind that steering wheel.

Never felt so at home.

“I want you to sell me _ this car. _ Right now.”

“I am sorry, _ sir__,”_ the man was now making as much of an effort at cold and authoritative as the average human could manage, “but that is simply not how we do business. Every Bentley is custom made according to the specifications of the client. This car was made for –”

“Me.” Crowley snapped his fingers and handed over a pile of money. What did he care? The steering wheel felt perfect against his palm, leather soft and smooth. He pulled off his other glove and stroked the wood paneling of the dashboard, the buttons and dials of the radio.

It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“You – you can’t be – this is nearly _ ten thousand pounds! ” _

“Good. Give yourself a nice bonus.” He finally looked at the car-person. The man wore a tan suit, a green tie, and the familiar expression of a human who’s just been given a very large incentive to rethink his entire moral code. “Do I need to sign a paper or something?”

Ten thousand pounds bought some very fast paperwork. Before Crowley had even finished exploring all the buttons and dials before him, the forms and pen had been produced.

He prepared to sign the name he used for human business; he’d never been completely satisfied with it, changing his supposed given name slightly every fifty or so years. He always felt that something was missing. It needed something more, something special, a little stylish. As he took the pen, it came to him at once: a middle initial.

_ Anthony J. Crowley _

Perfect.

He’d figure out what the J stood for later.

“How does it work?”

“Have you ever driven a car before?” the man half-leaned through the window, absolutely oozing helpfulness. Or just oozing sweat, despite the cool air.

“Never. Which button makes it go?”

The human bustled around to the passenger side, moving Crowley’s cane, hat and gloves onto the wide back seat before sitting down himself. He rapidly explained about electric ignition and how to shift gears on the manual transmission. The demon listened without saying a word until the end.

“All that gear shifting, clutch pressing sounds tedious. Can I skip it?”

“Well…sir…” he seemed afraid to contradict someone who threw around such large sums of money. “An expert can shift gears simply by perfectly matching the speed of the wheels and engine every time, but that’s simply not a practical option while driving. The synchronizer on the fourth gear will help avoid damage, but for the rest you absolutely must use the clutch and shift into neutral between each gear change.”

“Fine. Do I need to use all the gears?”

“If you wish to get the most performance out of the engine, there’s no question. Each gear has an optimal speed and rotations-per-minute range. First gear,” he mimed how to pull the lever to enter first, “will turn the wheels at a fraction of the engine’s rotation, which will give them more force to overcome inertia. This will get the vehicle moving, but not much more. Second gear,” another mimed shift, “will bring the wheel speed closer to the engine speed, but still less. This is needed for handling corners and steep hills. Doing either of these at a top gear could damage the engine, or worse cause the car to lose control and overturn. Third gear is recommended for driving on straight roads – ”

“And fourth. That’s one’s fast?”

“It would allow you to take advantage of the full rotational speed of the engine, an output of roughly one hundred brake horsepower – ”

“I don’t know what that means. Is it fast?”

“Under ideal circumstances, it can reach 90 miles per hour.”

“Good.”

“Do you need me to explain again?”

“No.” Crowley gave the human one last, dismissing look. “Get out. That isn’t your seat.”

He put the human out of his mind. Just Crowley and the car.

He started the engine.

It didn’t roar the way other cars did. It purred. It growled playfully. This wasn’t a car that needed to loudly announce itself wherever it went, flaunting some imagined superiority. It knew how good it was.

A tap of the gas pedal; the car quivered with anticipation. It wanted to go.

Crowley shifted gears and let it run.

It didn’t jerk and try to fight him the way a horse did. Instead it went from _ stop _ to _ go _in one smooth, effortless curve of acceleration, gently pushing him back into the embrace of red leather. As he turned out of the parking lot, and again onto the main road, it seemed to respond to his thoughts, rather than his hands on the wheel.

When he tried to shift to the next gear, the whole vehicle shuddered, jerked, and suddenly moved _ much _ faster. The street was clear, so he turned the wheel a little to see how it responded. The car swerved, throwing him off-balance with a shock that made his heart race. A half-smile formed on his face, one that he hadn’t felt in decades.

He wanted more.

He shifted again.

Throttle-clutch-neutral-wait-clutch-gear-accelerate!

He hadn’t known what speed was until that moment. Shops flew past on either side, humans leapt frantically out of his way. The car rattled unevenly across wood-block paving, wheel juddering in his hands as the tires failed to coordinate, but still he pressed down on the throttle, _ faster, faster. _

A stretch of undeveloped land, and suddenly the wood cobbles gave way to smooth asphalt. The jerking and rattling vanished, car leaping forward with an eagerness that slammed Crowley into the seat, needle on the speedometer shooting up and up. _ More, more. _

The turn came so quickly he barely had time to react; the car swung wide, the back wheels shrieking. He clung to the steering wheel, trying to correct as the back end shot uncontrollably one way and then the other. Another turn loomed ahead.

Throttle-clutch-neutral-accele-no brake-clutch-gear

There was a horrible grinding noise and the car came to a stop, engine stalled, the smell of overheated metal coming from close by.

Crowley rapped the dashboard. “None of that. You’re fine.” And it was true.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back in the seat, letting the indescribable scents surround him – wood and leather and oil and gas and things he’d never smelled before. He’d felt _ so close _ to…something…but as usual, it had all fallen apart.

The bone-tiredness crept in, as it had so often in the past few decades. He could just leave the car here, walk back to his flat in Mayfair, and climb into bed. There was a worldwide Depression on right now, which left a demon with very little to do. Desperate humans needed no encouragement to fight, steal and covet. He could sleep for another five years and not miss a thing.

For one glorious moment, though, he’d felt something he’d never experienced before. He didn’t know what it was, but he wanted to feel it again. It couldn’t hurt to try one more time.

He ran his hand across the steering wheel. “Alright. We both want the same thing here. But this isn’t going to work if you don’t _ communicate__._ We’re going to try again, nice and slow, and you tell me what you want.”

He started the engine again. This time the eager growl was a bit more restrained.

For half an hour, Crowley drove through the streets of London, practicing the shift between first and second gear. Twenty miles an hour felt so _ impossibly slow _ all of a sudden.

Bit by bit, he learned to listen for the sound of the engine straining for the next gear, feel the change in vibration thrumming through his body. He watched the road, learning to see the twists and turns before they reached him, to adjust when the road changed from wood blocks to asphalt to cobblestones.

His hand moved more easily now from wheel to gear shift, back and forth, changing with the pressure of his palm. His foot drifted between the pedals with almost no hesitation.

Then he brought in third gear.

Carefully at first, though the car leapt ahead at the lightest touch of the accelerator, he slid hands up and down the steering wheel, pulling and pushing as the road curved. It wasn’t as simple as _ high gear, more power _ – sometimes he had to drop down to second again to keep control, then back up to third.

If he got the timing wrong – shifted too early or too late – the strain of it would judder through his feet and thighs, but soon he had a handle on that, too. Every corner was a little different (tap the brakes before a wide curve, accelerate midway for a tight), every hill a challenge (lower the gear, don’t use too much brake), there was no single set of rules for every road. It was elusive, constantly changing.

When he found it, the right balance of power and control and speed and machine and soul, it struck him like a chord, like the perfect harmony of celestial music only _ better _ because this was real and it was his.

It was a symphony that he conducted, he alone with his car.

Faster now, tearing through neighborhoods that had never before heard the purr of an engine. Foot dancing across the pedals – here just enough brake to add a bit of traction, there just a hint of acceleration to keep control. He could feel the power, a hundred horses straining at the bit, but still obeying his every command. When he shifted now there wasn’t even a hint of a jerk – all you had to do was match the revolutions perfectly and that was no challenge at all. The car told him what to do.

It was a perfect partnership, a wordless dance.

They reached the edge of London just as it was getting dark, headlights illuminating a wide open road heading north through the countryside.

Crowley shifted into fourth, and found out what the Bentley was really capable of.

\--

Ten miles outside London, swerving around the occasional lorry or tractor that was practically _ standing still _ by comparison, Crowley still hadn’t managed to get above 65. Oh, that was fast – faster than he’d ever gone – but he wanted more.

Ahead he finally spied a hill that seemed perfect for his needs – one long, straight slope. He downshifted rapidly as he climbed, left foot no longer even moving, just tapping brake and throttle with toe and heel. He reached the flat top and drove another fifty feet before coming to a stop.

“Alright. This is the big one. Are you ready?”

The car quivered with anticipation. It tingled through his feet, and the fingers on the wheel.

He took a deep breath.

Crowley slammed the car into reverse and stomped on the throttle. The car shot back – going fifteen, twenty, twenty-five – then he eased off the gas and turned sharp right, straightening the wheel even as the car spun and –

Clutch-neutral-release-throttle-clutch-first-_ go _ –

The car straightened out of the 180-spin, wheels squealing slightly, and shot down the slope.

Shift-shift-shift-

“Come on, come on, you can do this!” Crowley watched the speedometer – 65, 70, 75…

He tore off the bottom of the hill at 86, laughter mixed with the hoarse cry of the engine. He never touched the brakes the whole way back to London, and reached the first intersection at 75. He doubted the humans could even see him as he twisted his way to the centre of the city.

“Yes,” he cried. “This is what I needed! It’s amazing. It’s perfect!” Crowley grinned at the dashboard. “From now on, it’s you and me.”

Lord’s Cricket Ground. Regent’s Park. He’d thought he was heading for the river and the Southbank, until he recognized the streets of Soho, and a familiar crossroads ahead.

_ Why? Why had he come here? _

The Bentley slid to a stop across the street from the bookshop. Crowley let the engine idle.

It was past eight o’clock but the bright glow of gaslight still spilled out from the windows. A white-suited figure stood on a ladder in the central room, shelving books.

He hadn’t changed at all. Oh, he was clean-shaven again, and he’d updated some parts of the suit probably half a century ago, but every precise, fussy gesture was exactly as Crowley remembered.

It had been seventy-one years.

An entire generation of humans had been born and raised and lived full lives of heartbreak and petty squabbles and Friday nights out drinking at the pub and found pennies and stubbed toes and taking the grandkids to see cartoons at the nickelodeon and in all that time _ he and the angel hadn’t spoken to each other once. _

He could go in there right now.

Crowley closed his eyes. He could imagine himself bursting through the door, trying to describe the sheer wordless joy of driving while Aziraphale failed to mask his curiosity behind disapproval. He could try and tempt him into a ride. Crowley knew how to pull the right strings when he needed to.

Or they could stay in and talk, share a bottle of wine. Discuss the strange predilections of their superiors and debate whether human music was as good as it used to be. Crowley would bet anything that Aziraphale hated jazz.

Did he still hum that same song after a particularly good day of not selling anything?

Did he still purse his lips when he wanted everyone to know he was considering something _ very carefully,_ even though he’d already made up his mind?

Did he still smell of dust and old leather with a hint of cologne? And underneath, something pure and clean, like raindrops on grass the morning after a thunderstorm?

_ Do you know what sort of trouble I’d be in if they knew I’d been… _ ** _fraternizin_****_g_**_**? **Well, whatever you wish to call it. _

With a wordless shout, Crowley slammed his fists into the steering wheel. “Six thousand years. _ Six thousand years _ and that’s all you can say? _ Fraternizing__?_ You blind, stupid imbecile! You stubborn moron!”

_ I have lots of other people to ‘fraternize’ with, Angel. I don’t need you. _

It was the biggest lie he’d ever told Aziraphale. Perhaps the biggest he’d ever told, full stop. It just kept going and going and he couldn’t get out from under it.

Maybe he was a stubborn fool, too. He could walk into that shop now and –

What? Apologize? Act like it never happened? Spend another century tip-toeing around emotions Aziraphale refused to acknowledge, while the angel trampled all over his like a careless toddler?

He couldn’t do it. Not again.

But he couldn’t walk away, either. They were bound to each other, whether Aziraphale could see it or not.

He sighed, running his hand across the dashboard again. “That’s him. Aziraphale. My…” the taste of sulfur rose in his throat. Even to a _ car,_ he couldn’t say it. “My friend.” He glanced through the window again. Aziraphale still stood on the ladder, now paging eagerly through an old tome, completely oblivious to the fact that he still held two more under his arm. “Someday I’ll figure it out. A way to show him. How I feel. And how he feels. So even he can’t deny it.”

Crowley rested his fingers on the passenger seat. “He’ll sit here. And it’ll be you and me and him.” He laughed, but it wasn’t his usual daring laugh. “He’ll hate you. Probably call you ‘infernal machine’ or something. Just like I hate his books, and all that stupid tartan he wears.” He ran his fingers up the chair, then settled them back on the gear shift. “But don’t let it get to you. It’s just his way. Our way. And we’ve alw – ”

He had to clear his throat.

“We’ve always managed before.”

He tapped the throttle and the engine revved eagerly.

“In the meantime. There are much larger hills up towards Scotland, which will either be very good or very bad for you. What do you say we go find out?”

\--

Outside the shop, an automobile engine roared to life and shot off with a screech of wheels.

“Infernal machine,” Aziraphale sniffed. Then he noticed the two books tucked under his elbow. “Oh, where did those come from?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, thanks to my beta reader kindathewholepoint.
> 
> This one took a shocking amount of research, so if anyone spots any egregious errors in the driving sequences, let me know and I'll try to fix them.
> 
> We might be looking at a short hiatus after this one - the next story is multi-chaptered and needs to be edited very carefully. I'll try to get something light up next week so there isn't a break, but no promises! You can find me on Tumblr @AethelflaedLadyofMercia for regular updates; I generally respond to messages and asks within a few hours.
> 
> For those who haven't been following the updates: the next story (the long one) will be dark. I'm trying to keep it to a T rating, though, and the ending is happy/hopeful. After that I'm *planning* to switch to lighter stories for a bit. We'll see how that goes.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated, and thank you all for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] In Love With My Car](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237003) by [ExMarks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExMarks/pseuds/ExMarks)


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